Guardian Angel: Part Four

I may be experiencing what is, without a doubt, the absolute, worst hangover I have ever had in all my twenty-six years of life, and as result, my coherence is questionable at best at the moment.

Plus, my motor skills are probably still shot to hell from last night, especially considering the fact that I can barely get passed the constant ringing in my ears and throbbing in my temples—not to mention the disgusting taste of vodka-infused vomit that’s still lingering in the back of my throat.

Still, I’m pretty darn sure that what I’m feeling right here and right now is someone else’s skin.

I mean, fuck, it sure as hell isn’t mine! Even with a brain that currently refuses to cooperate all the way, I know I can at least recognize that much.

Is…is that an arm?

I’m slightly alarmed now, my body slow to catch up with my head in its trashed, abused state, but I chance it anyway and let my hand continue to feel around tentatively, moving up the length of the supposed arm and stopping at what feels like a very broad and muscled shoulder.

And as soon as my eyes land on the figure laying right next to me, every single one of my nerves go into overdrive, all my senses become a jumbled mess of confusion, and a bout of shock completely take over my body.

There’s a man lying right next to me.

A naked man.

And, for some reason, he has lots and lots of feathers splayed around him. Feathers that are attached to…wait…a-are those…wings?

No. No, they can’t possibly be…

The man mumbles something again, shifting slightly, and I can feel my mattress easily move beneath his weight, rising and sinking as it is simultaneously released from and subjected to his large frame.

My mouth falls open without my permission, and I swear I’m just two seconds away from catching a fly, but no words will come out of it.

I just stare at him as he lazily adjusts himself in my bed, seemingly oblivious to anything and everything but the calmness of his subconscious and the carefree feeling that only sleep can offer.

For several moments, I can’t speak. I can’t move a muscle or even make a sound.

All I can do for those distinct seconds that seem to slow down exponentially and almost remove themselves from the rest of time is continue to watch the naked figure sleeping ever so calmly beside my own rigid, immobile body.

But then, in the blink of an eye—a suddenly very twitchy eye, I might add—that all changes.

Before I even know what’s happening, I’m letting out the loudest, most ear-shattering scream in the world.

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